


Six Days

by stopthat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John Watson, Blunt Talk of Alcoholism and its Effects, Declarations Of Love, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Texting, Experimental Style, Heavy Fluff, Honesty, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Mary is Irrelevant and Barely Mentioned, Not Canon Compliant, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Siblings, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Texting, Unresolved Emotional Tension, sibling angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27111490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthat/pseuds/stopthat
Summary: Sherlock has been back for three solid months and they've hardly spent a moment apart.  Perhaps that's the problem.Maybe we could use this timeYou know?Maybe we need this timeYou want me to leave you alone.  SHNoNot at allI want you to talk to me
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 66
Kudos: 90





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me and are wondering if I'm insane, starting yet another story while the rest of them remain incomplete, the answer is yes.
> 
> I wanted to attempt a fic that revolves around texting and remains (fairly) believable. I've read a few that are cute/sexy/whatever but with this one I'm trying to capture that sort of anticipatory excitement that comes from bold, uncharacteristically honest, maybe even risky late night text conversations. You know? The best. We'll see how it works out. Really playing fast and loose with canon here. If something doesn't sound right it's almost certainly because I made it up.
> 
>   
> Thanks for giving it a shot!

> _Tell me again. SH_
> 
> _Six days, Sherlock_
> 
> _Too long. SH_
> 
> _Six days is not very many days_
> 
> _Not even a full bloody week and the first is nearly over_
> 
> _You’ll manage_
> 
> _I don’t want to be apart from you, John. SH_

  
  
  


_Christ,_ John thinks, staring down at his mobile. What is this, then? Sherlock doesn’t say things like this. Sweet things. Warm things. Honest things, even. Neither of them do, though he wishes more than anything that they could, that they would. The man has been back from the dead for three solid months and all they’ve managed to do is rage at each other for a full week and then return to the way things were before. Or some version of it, anyway. John certainly hadn’t wasted any time moving back to Baker Street, despite the lingering resentment and emotional unrest simmering between them.

John knows that things between them aren’t actually the way that they used to be. He is no fool. He is, however, utterly broken—a shattered fucking shell of his former self, trying desperately to remember how to be the man he was the last time he’d devoted his entire existence to Sherlock Holmes. He’d been the happiest, most secure and sure version of himself during those precious months—and he is certain that he will never, ever be the same. He is certain that the grief he’d endured in the following two years of hollow hunger has changed him into something...else. Someone else. He is certain. 

But he’s trying, for Sherlock. He’s living, now, for Sherlock. He broke off his feeble bloody engagement for Sherlock, yet still hasn’t found the words to tell the man why. 

Sherlock is quieter, now. More careful. They’re together constantly, orbiting one another gingerly as they try in vain to regain what they once had. Perhaps that’s the problem.

> _I don’t want to be apart from you either, Sherlock, but I need to do this for Harry_

  
  
  


And maybe some distance—the sort of distance that they both know full well is temporary, _not_ the sort that one of them believes to be eternal—will do them good.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. John curls up under his gran’s old quilt on his mum’s old couch in his sister’s tiny flat and shivers himself to sleep.


	2. Day Two

> _I don’t understand why I couldn’t have accompanied you. SH_

  
  
  


John thinks for a moment, caught a bit off guard as he chews on stale Cheerios, occasionally glaring at his sister across the table where she sits in silence stirring the off-colour milk with her spoon. 

Sherlock _could_ have come with, he supposes. Could’ve gotten a hotel...or—they hadn’t discussed it. John had told him early yesterday morning that he’d be spending six days in Manchester trying to save Harry from herself, and Sherlock had ignored him entirely—lying still as a statue on the sofa—until the very moment John had walked out the door. 

_You’ll come back,_ he’d said, hovering in the entryway—not quite a question, but not a command, either. John had stopped half way down the stairs, small bag slung over his shoulder, and turned to face him. _Of course I’ll come back, Sherlock._ (Was there really any doubt?) _Six days, is all. I’ll see you in six days._  
  


> _Thought you’d have better things to do_
> 
> _And anyway, I’m sleeping on a scratchy sofa in a tiny flat in bloody Manchester_
> 
> _You’d end up shooting the walls_
> 
> _I’d have come, had you asked. SH_
> 
> _Yeah, I guess you would’ve, wouldn’t you_
> 
> _I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking_
> 
> _Was all pretty last minute_

  
  
  


Completely last-minute. He’d gotten the call from her sponsor at four in the morning letting him know that she was being released from hospital but will need further care. A concussion and a sprained ankle—both the results of an inconvenient seizure. Withdrawal. She’s trying to quit on her own again, evidently, without proper detox and rehabilitation. Another lesson she refuses to learn. But it could’ve been much, much worse. Could still _get_ much, much worse. And as Harry has smoked every last one of her friends down to the filter, it seems that this responsibility now falls on John. He’s found a rehab clinic in Leeds that can take her in six days—now five. And this time, she’s agreed to go.

He watches as the three little dots appear and disappear from the screen. Four minutes of silence. John sighs, decides on a bit of honesty.

> _I wish I’d asked_

  
  
  


It’s true. He would love to have Sherlock here right now. He misses him deeply. He misses him constantly. He misses him when he’s lying in bed at night, when Sherlock is just a staircase away. He misses him in the aisles of Tesco, at the clinic on the rare occasion that he actually picks up a shift, on his walks through Regent’s Park when he thinks he needs space. He misses him when he’s sitting right in front of him, a fire flickering between them, John hiding behind a novel and Sherlock hiding behind closed eyelids and his own two hands. But—  
  


> _But Sherlock_
> 
> _Maybe we could use this time_
> 
> _You know?_
> 
> _Maybe we need this time_
> 
> _You want me to leave you alone. SH_
> 
> _No_
> 
> _Not at all_
> 
> _I want you to talk to me_

  
  
  


It feels a bit reckless to ask this of him now. It also feels somehow more possible than ever. He knows that Sherlock prefers to text—it’s easier for him to say what he means when there’s a digital buffer between them—but they’ve hardly done so in the past months. Have had no need. Have had no space, really. But something about the prospect of six days apart has apparently allowed Sherlock to be more forthcoming—and the least John can do is reciprocate with his own brand of candor.

Eight minutes of silence. John has begun to let his mind drift into _oh shit_ territory when he’s cleared the table, washed his bowl and Harry’s, dried them, put them back in their cupboard and still received no response. But then—  
  


> _What would you like me to say? SH_

  
  
  


“Who’re you texting?” John jumps, glancing up at his wreck of a sister where she sits in a wobbly wooden chair, sprained and swollen ankle propped up on its neighbor. She’s scowling at him outright, not bothering to hide her displeasure at his presence.

“Who do you think?” John rolls his eyes. Harry hates Sherlock. She cannot stand Sherlock.

“I don’t understand why you still give that bastard the time of day,” No, she wouldn’t understand. She never could. “He was a pompous prick even before he killed himself in front of you and left you to rot,” She’d met him only once. On John’s birthday that first year at Baker Street. It was immediate, mutual disdain. “And now you’ve ditched your bloody _fiancé_ and gone back to him,” She never did meet Mary. She’d have hated her, too.

“Yeah Harry. I have. He’s my best friend,” John says carefully in the most reasonable tone he can muster. Harry isn’t always this abrasive. He continues to remind himself what a mild concussion tossed on top of alcohol withdrawal and a throbbing ankle will do to a person’s attitude. She scoffs.

“He’s a lot more than your _best friend,”_ She means it to be cruel. Accusatory. She wants to rile him up. But John is done with denying any part of himself or anything that he might feel for Sherlock, so she can take her negativity and go suck a fuck.

“Yeah. Or, well, _no,_ actually—but I’d like him to be, yeah,” She stares at him, mouth a bit agape. He grins, returning his gaze to his mobile.  
  


> _I’ll start, yeah?_
> 
> _I felt like a bloody fool, Sherlock_
> 
> _For a long time_
> 
> _Still do, sometimes_
> 
> _For believing it_

  
  
  


“You really mean that,” Harry says, almost gently. Odd. John stops typing, glances up to meet her inquiring eye.

“What?”

“You really mean it. You want to be with him. Why’d you spend so long denying it, then?” She’s leaning forward, elbows on the table, hair a wild, ratty mess and leg still awkwardly propped up on the chair beside her. John looks at her for a moment, then bursts into laughter. She gives him a look that clearly says _you’re bloody insane_ —nose crinkled, brow bunched—

“Sorry,” He says, smiling. He is insane. He really is. Moreso now than ever, but who cares. “You look ridiculous,” He sighs. She glares. “I don’t know, Harry. I didn’t think I could ever have him, so I took every opportunity to declare my disinterest. Didn’t need the entirety of London pitying me. He was so bloody untouchable—or he seemed that way, anyway. I don’t think it was ever true,” He’s pretty sure now—after everything—that every single part of Sherlock’s frigid demeanor was a façade he’d created to protect a fragile heart. Of course John had seen a more human side of him when they were alone. Of course he had. But even then Sherlock had never shown the slightest bit of interest in anything beyond their oddly close friendship and working partnership. 

And that’s still true. Mostly. And it’s fine. Because John is certain, even now, that he himself would not need much more than the intimacy that naturally exists between them. What he’s seeking is a more open version of it. Honesty, for one. Acknowledgement. Commitment. And physicality, maybe. Not sex, necessarily—he’s pretty positive that sex isn’t ever going to be something Sherlock wants—just...affection. Less of the forced distance between them. Permission to curl himself around the man, to reach for his hand, brush his fingers through his curls, press his lips to his temple. Things that he’s always felt a pull toward. Things John believes—now that he’s come back (a bit softer, a bit quieter)—that Sherlock wants too.  
  


> _If you hadn’t, it would all have been for nothing. SH_
> 
> _I do know that_
> 
> _But I don’t know what to do with the grief, Sherlock_
> 
> _You know?_
> 
> _It’s still there_

  
  
  


It’s probably why he misses Sherlock even when they're three miles apart, when they’re a stairway apart, when he’s two feet away. It’s habit, at this point, and logic be damned.  
  


> _I understand. SH_
> 
> _I am sorry, John._ _I’m afraid I don’t know what to say. SH_
> 
> _New subject_
> 
> _Tell me something that’s been on your mind_

  
  
  


He knows a dead end when he sees one, just as he knows there are things that Sherlock has been holding back. He can feel them trying to escape into the silence that so often surrounds them. He can see them when their eyes meet and hold for just a beat too long. He—

“Do you love him, then?” John jerks back to the present, tearing his eyes away from the three little dots that have just appeared on the screen to stare at Harry. “I mean, of course you do, Johnny, sorry. Are you _in love_ with him?” John swallows, willing his suddenly galloping heart to slow. He finds that he’s nodding, slowly. Slowly nodding.

“Yes—yeah,” Swallows again, watches as Harry grapples with a smile.

“Wow,” She says simply, eyebrows creeping upward, grin still stubbornly trying to fight its way through. “Well then,” She slaps her hand down on the table and leans back precariously in her chair. John rolls his eyes. “What’re you going to do about it?”  
  


> _I've written you a letter. I’d intended to give it to you the day I returned, but that didn't quite work out. Obviously. I fear that I’ve waited too long. SH_
> 
> _Oh_
> 
> _I’d still like to read it, if that’s alright?_
> 
> _Soon, John. SH_


	3. Day Three

> _John! I’m sorry. There's been a case. SH_

  
  
  


John groans, sitting up on the ridiculously stiff sofa and stretching his arms upward until his spine cracks, muscles shifting pleasantly beneath skin. He glances at the time. 3:42. _God, Sherlock._

He’d gone completely silent late yesterday morning after the admission that there was a letter. John had assumed he’d regretted confessing that he’d done something so bloody sentimental and that perhaps John was pushing him a bit too hard to talk. He’d sent out a few more (casual) texts throughout the day and received no response, so he’d let it be. 

But apparently, there’d been a case.

> _No problem_
> 
> _Good one?_
> 
> _Barely a two. SH_
> 
> _Seemed promising until I realized what initially appeared to be murder by boat propeller was, in fact, an inexperienced imbecile with long hair and unfortunate timing. SH_
> 
> _Oh god_
> 
> _Sorry I missed that one_
> 
> _Actually, no_
> 
> _Not sure I need that sort of imagery floating around in my head_
> 
> _Interesting choice of words. SH_
> 
> _There are parts of his head floating around in the Thames. SH_

  
  
  


John can feel a giggle bubbling up. God, he’d missed this easy banter, along with everything else about Sherlock that was stolen from him for two full years. They do have these moments, now that he’s back—moments where they forget the turn their lives have taken and find themselves giggling together in the corners of crime scenes. But they’re rare. And John wants more of them.

> _Christ, you’re mad_
> 
> _Yes. SH_
> 
> _Love that about you_
> 
> _Do you? SH_
> 
> _Yes_
> 
> _I should go wake Harry_
> 
> _Make sure she hasn’t succumbed to the bloody concussion_
> 
> _All right. SH_
> 
> _Going back to sleep, then_
> 
> _You should too_
> 
> _It’s the middle of the night, if you hadn’t noticed_
> 
> _Goodnight, John. SH_

  
  


“So you two’ve never—”

“No, Harry.”

“You’ve not even kissed? Or—”

“No, nothing like that.”

“What about—I mean surely there were—cuddles—or, I don’t know—”

“No,” The incredulity in the air is palpable.

“How do you fall in love with someone you’ve never touched?” John nearly chokes on his linguine. Harry glares at him as he coughs into his napkin. “Really, Johnny. And he’s such a bloody insufferable cock. And he _left_ you—let you think he was—I don’t understand what’s in it for you if he won’t even—”

“All right. Jesus,” He pushes his plate away, leaning back to look at her. She’d managed a bath earlier and has actually gotten dressed today. Her (only slightly greying) golden hair falls neatly to her chin. The lines on her face aren’t deep, not really—but the dark circles beneath her pale blue eyes have been a permanent fixture for as long as he can remember. Still, she looks healthy, all things considered. She looks almost like his sister again, right down to the cocky glare she’s aiming at him from across the table. “What was _in it_ for you when you married Clara?” He watches her wince, predictably, and immediately look away. “You two were together for eight bloody years, and I know full well you didn’t touch each other for the last two. And yet you both stayed. Tried. You can’t tell me, Harry, that you don’t understand,” Clara had been his friend. She’d come to him when things were at their worst. She’d tried _so hard_ for Harry, and in the end it was Harry who’d left her behind.

“It isn’t the same.”

“But my point still stands.”

Harry rises awkwardly, reaching for the crutches she left leaned against the worktop. She gives him one final scowl before retreating slowly to her room. John sighs.

> _Can I ask you something?_
> 
> _Yes, John. SH_
> 
> _You’re not going to like it_
> 
> _And yet my answer remains the same. SH_
> 
> _Alright_
> 
> _Here goes_
> 
> _Have you ever been in a relationship? A proper relationship? Have you ever tried?_
> 
> _Once, yes. SH_
> 
> _Really???_
> 
> _Really. SH_
> 
> _I’ve always wondered_
> 
> _Odd that we’ve never discussed it, isn’t it?_
> 
> _Feels like something we should know about each other_
> 
> _You’ve never asked. SH_
> 
> _No, I know_
> 
> _I’m aware of your past relationships. SH_
> 
> _You aren’t though, are you? Not really_
> 
> _You know about Mary_
> 
> _You know about all my half arsed attempts at dating when we first met_
> 
> _You don’t know about Aisling_
> 
> _You don’t know about James_

  
  
  


Sherlock is silent, as John knew he would be, for nearly ten minutes before the three little dots appear on the screen. He’s been thinking about this all evening, since his botched conversation with Harry at dinner. He’s been thinking about Clara and how complicated relationships can be and how little he and Sherlock actually know about each others’ pasts. Sherlock couldn’t have deduced that John spent two really quite pleasant years in uni with a girl he’d thought he’d marry someday. Or that three years later he’d fallen so hard for his superior officer that he’d begun to question everything he'd ever thought to be true about himself. There was so much between them—a deep, hard-earned trust and a bond forged by shared traumas and tragedies. The transition had been natural and easy and had lasted longer than any of John’s other attempts at love. 

Until Sherlock. Even through the grief and the rage and the fear and the hell that his life has been for the last two years, he’d never stopped loving Sherlock.

> _You’re bisexual. SH_
> 
> _I am_
> 
> _There’s always something. SH_

  
  
  


He can’t help but laugh. He’d assumed Sherlock was well aware of his attraction to men, as John had nearly thrown himself at him and then vehemently denied it during their first case together. He hadn’t even been conscious of what he was doing, not really. The attraction was so immediate and so unlike anything he’d experienced before. Everything about Sherlock is unlike anything he’s experienced before.

> _I’m also open_ _to anything, really_
> 
> _If it’s with someone I’m completely gone on_
> 
> _Just so you know_

  
  
  


John holds his breath. He’d gone into this conversation planning to be bold—for once in his bloody life—and to learn where he stands. But he still feels like his heart might stop dead in his chest.

> _I identify as demisexual. SH_
> 
> _Just so you know. SH_

  
  
  


John stares. And stares. That is certainly not the sort of response he was expecting. He rushes to open a browser and hurriedly types _demisexual_ into the search bar.

> _Tell me about your past relationship_
> 
> _If you want_
> 
> _Only if you want_
> 
> _His name was Victor. SH_
> 
> _We were sixteen, John. There isn't much to tell. SH_
> 
> _How long were you together?_
> 
> _Seven months. SH_
> 
> _And it was romantic?_
> 
> _You loved him?_
> 
> _It was. I did. SH_
> 
> _But you were friends first._
> 
> _Yes. For just over three years. We were neighbors and schoolmates. SH_
> 
> _How did it end?_
> 
> _I made a mistake. A rather unforgivable one, I’m afraid. I’ll tell you another time, John. SH_
> 
> _I’m sorry_
> 
> _I don’t mean to pry_
> 
> _You may ask me anything. SH_
> 
> _But it’s a long story and would be better left for another time. SH_

  
  
  


John exhales slowly, releasing the gust of breath he’s been holding in his chest and sinking back onto the sofa. He stares up at his mobile. He cannot imagine the sort of person Sherlock would deem worthy of romantic entanglement, even at sixteen. He wonders what he was like, then. Brilliant, obviously. Awkward, almost certainly. He’s implied many times that he has never had friends, so this unexpected information opens up a whole new set of questions. But he’s pushed enough for one night.

> _I’m grateful that you’re willing to tell me these things, you know_
> 
> _I hate that I know so little about you_
> 
> _You know me better than anyone. SH_
> 
> _I’d still like to know more_
> 
> _All right. SH_
> 
> _Alright_
> 
> _Sleeping, now_
> 
> _Talk tomorrow?_
> 
> _Of course, John. Goodnight. SH_


	4. Day Four

“Why haven’t you told him?” Harry is hobbling about the kitchen on one crutch, tearing apart a cupboard in search of whatever tea she’s decided is vastly superior to the Earl Grey that John has made. He sips at his mug, glancing up at her over the newspaper he’s been staring at unseeingly for the better part of an hour. He says nothing, watching as she finds the one she’s looking for and plops a bag into the steaming water John left for her on the worktop. Finally, she meets his eye. “Well?”

“Uh, fear I suppose.”

“Fear of _what?”_ She squawks. “He’s obsessed with you, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Well if you must know, until very recently I’d assumed he was asexual and probably also aromantic. I wasn’t about to turn our friendship into an impossible, embarrassing mess over my own one-sided attraction.”

“What do you mean until recently?” She narrows her eyes. “I’d have guessed he was ace as well, actually, considering his clear disinterest in all of humanity beyond serial killers and corpses. But then I saw the two of you interact, and, well—”

“Well what?”

“Well I’d thought you were at least shagging! Flatmates with benefits or—whatever.”

“Seriously?”

“Well yeah, John. Why do you think—I mean you call him your _best friend._ When have you ever had a best friend? Plus you’re like forty. I’d thought that was you trying to give it a name while still maintaining that you’re straight as a bloody board, which has never been true.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Oh please,” She scoffs. _“James?_ Come on,” Heat creeps onto John’s cheeks. He clears his throat, shaking out the paper and raising it to cover what he’s certain is becoming an unmistakable blush.

“Yeah, well. Sherlock isn’t quite so easy to define. Thought I’d scare him half to death if I tried to bring it up. But things are different now that he’s back— _he’s_ different—and I still feel just the same. I think he might too,” John sighs, hoping desperately that he’s right about this. “On some level, at least,” Harry sets her tea on the table, leaning forward to gently lower John’s newspaper. She smiles at him—a small, proud thing—then casually ruffles his hair.

“I expect to be best man at the wedding,” She says.

> _What’re you up to today?_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Composing. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Are you? Don’t think I’ve heard you play even once since you’ve returned_
> 
> _I miss it, actually_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _This is the first I’ve picked it up in nearly two and a half years. SH_
> 
> _Thought perhaps it was time. SH_
> 
> _How is Harry? SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _She’s fine_
> 
> _Obnoxious as ever_
> 
> _Hitting her head has done absolutely nothing for her personality_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Pity. SH_
> 
> _It worked for me. SH_

  
  
  


John takes a moment to register this, and then immediately the tears come at the same time as the maniacal grin. _God damnit, Sherlock._ John leans forward in the armchair he’s been perched in, elbows against his thighs. _It worked for me. Jesus._ He’s still staring down at Sherlock’s horrible attempt at humour. He feels his shoulders begin to shake and he’s honestly not sure if he’s laughing or sobbing but right now either or both would be just fine.

> _John? SH_
> 
> _I’m an idiot. SH_
> 
> _I’m sorry. SH_
> 
> _It wasn’t funny. I’m sorry. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _No it’s fine, you bastard_
> 
> _You’re horrible but I’m laughing_
> 
> _Pretty sure, at least_
> 
> _I miss you_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _I miss you, too. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _I miss you all the time, Sherlock_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _We’re together constantly. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Yeah_
> 
> _But you know what I mean_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _I do. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Will we ever get back to the way we were, do you think?_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _I hope not. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _What?_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _John. We can do so much better than that. SH_

  
  
  


“Now what’re you grinning at?” Harry has resurfaced from her bedroom, staring in mock horror at John smiling softly at his mobile with a tear-streaked face. She shoots him one more look of disgust, followed by a quick smirk as she drops down in the armchair opposite, elevating her ankle on the coffee table with a groan and a cringe. “You look like a swooning bloody princess.”

“Ta,” They’ve always spoken to each other this way. Honestly, he loves her for it.

“What’s he said, then?” She hoists her other foot up to rest beside the injured one and shimmies until she’s settled in. John shakes his head. Not a chance he’s sharing this. “Come on, out with it.” He sighs. Still no, but—

“You know, yesterday he told me he identifies as demisexual. Had never heard of such a thing and I’m meant to be a bloody doctor,” But today he’d spent half the morning reading about demisexuality and a whole spectrum of other orientations and identities that he’s fairly certain didn’t exist when he first began to question his own. Or perhaps he just wasn’t ready to explore them. Harry slowly lifts an eyebrow.

“A doctor _and_ a member of the queer community,” She looks at him pointedly. “Surprised Holmes deigns to _identify_ as anything. Can’t exactly put that man in a box, can you?” She pulls the plaid blanket from the back of her chair and tucks it around herself. “Are you surprised he told you?”

“A bit, yeah. I got the impression he was trying to—say something else. By telling me. You know.”

“I know, yeah,” She’s really grinning now. John rolls his eyes.

> _John? SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _I’m here, sorry_
> 
> _Harry came in and called me a princess_
> 
> _She also said that you cannot be put into a box_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Perhaps I should reconsider my initial opinion of her. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Sherlock_
> 
> _I agree_
> 
> _We can do better_

  
  
  


“Heading to bed,” Harry mumbles a few minutes later, slowly rising and reaching for her crutches. “Thought I was up for another episode of Ab Fab but I’m crashing right quick,” All they’ve done all day is watch Ab Fab in these very chairs. “Christ, it’s nearly midnight.”

“‘Night, then,” He tucks his legs up underneath him, snatches Harry’s abandoned blanket and turns his attention back to his mobile.

> _There is something I’d like to say to you. SH_

  
  
  


Oh, God. Is this it? Is Sherlock going to be the brave one, stepping over the line and walking headlong into this? Or is that wishful bloody thinking and this is something else entirely—John inhales deeply, preparing himself for anything. Preparing himself for the worst.

> _Say it_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _I’m not sure how it’ll be received. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _You can say anything to me, Sherlock_
> 
> _At any time_
> 
> _For any reason_
> 
> _Say it_
> 
> _Please_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Promise me you’ll respond. SH_
> 
> _Good or bad, don’t go silent. SH_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _I promise_
> 
> _I do_
> 
> _You have my full attention_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _All right. SH_
> 
> _When I say that we can do better, John, what I mean is that we could have more. SH_

  
  
  


John’s heart stops, breath caught in his throat, his thumbs tremble where they hover over the keypad as the three little dots appear once again. They taunt him as the moment drags on for five seconds, ten—

> _It doesn't have to be how it was before. I want to move forward with you, John. SH_
> 
> _I want more. SH_


	5. Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'd planned on posting the last two chapters last week, but unfortunately for everyone, my favorite pastime is setting deadlines and then ignoring them entirely.
> 
> Here's day five.

> _John… SH_

  
  


John jumps when his mobile vibrates again in his hand. He’s been staring at the same green square on Harry’s blanket for god knows how long, mind at an absolute standstill, thoughts seemingly suspended in a brain that’s turned to jelly as he tries to wrap his head around what he’s just read and what it means for him. What it means for them. 

He glances at the time. One minute past midnight. _Shit._ He’s left Sherlock in silence—precisely what he’d promised not to do.

  
  


> _I’m here_
> 
> _You’ve managed to get me a bit flustered_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _I see. SH_

  
  


John blinks, inhales deeply and tries to pull himself together. He’s mangling this already—needs to say more, _more,_ immediately, if not sooner. Needs to reassure, to accept, to consent to confirm to _confess_ and to _shout_ and to holler his eagerness and earnestness and the sweeping warmth he feels at this very moment and the immense, overwhelming sense of possibility and _relief_ forming so deep in his gut, spreading wildly through his limbs now, making his hands shake and his heart soar and—

  
  


> _Sherlock_
> 
> _Whatever you mean by that_
> 
> _Whatever you mean by more_
> 
> _Yes_

  
  


John is giggling, now. Giggling quietly and a bit breathlessly all alone in this empty room like a fool—absolutely bloody mad and giddy with relief and an almost painful swell of gratitude for Sherlock’s unexpected gallantry.

He’s taken this chance for the both of them—confronted this thing that’s been growing between them for so _bloody long,_ evolving into a crushing, insurmountable mass with each day that they’ve ignored it, shunned it, let it steadily grow and get entirely out of hand. Now Sherlock’s gone and shattered it into a hundred thousand irreversible pieces— _set it free_ —and John feels bloody buoyant without the weight of it.

And before he even knows what he's doing, he’s got his mobile pressed to his ear and it’s ringing, ringing. Three times, four—

“John,” A deep, fond rumble. All things familiar and lovely and warm and right exist within that voice, and John lets it wrap him up—to calm his sizzling nerves and to begin to slow his thundering heart. And now he’s crying, _damnit,_ he’s crying. He swipes impatiently at his eyes.

“Sherlock,” John breathes. Sherlock is quiet for a long moment on the other end of the line.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. God, yeah. Think I just needed to hear your voice,” He can hear Sherlock sigh—relieved, content—a small, amused chuckle slipping out at the end.

“It’s been just over ninety hours.”

“What?”

“Since we last spoke,” The words slip in through John’s ear and sink into the very core of him, down, down, deep into his bones. He could drown in that voice. He might just.

“Oh,” He lets his eyes fall closed and imagines Sherlock is beside him, whispering against his skin, lips pressed to the shell of his ear—a scenario that’s suddenly within their realm of possibility. John shivers. Ninety hours since they’ve spoken and now they remain silent for a small eternity, listening to each other breathe. In, out. Sherlock seems to be waiting, giving John a moment to collect himself. So he tries valiantly—takes a deep breath, aims for levity. “Thought we’d been speaking this whole time.”

“Yes. But you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” John sighs. More silence. Something bites inexorably at the back of his mind—a visceral prickle, a well-entrenched sense. He can feel words being held back, can hear the hesitance in Sherlock’s slightly unsteady breathing. “What is it?”

A pause. One more breath, two, then—

“Well, I—it’s—what do we do now, John?” That voice. Low, serious. Concerned, maybe even terrified. John can only smile. It seems he’s forgotten how to do much else.

“I—don’t know,” The words emerge infinitely more gently than he’d intended. Perhaps some part of him suspects that’s what they both need just now. “But I’m quite certain that we’ll figure it out,” He is certain. He’s more certain of this—of them—than he’s ever been of anything in his entire bloody life. This is it, for him. He’s more than ready for this.

“Two more days?”

“I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“But today has barely begun.”

“Yeah,” It’s still just after midnight. Feels like an eternity has passed in the span of a few profound moments. His whole world has tilted into something new—something _more._ Again, John sighs. Then yawns, large and loud. He hears Sherlock register this and let out a low chuckle. He should really sleep. Reality is beginning to seep in, gradually evaporating the fleeting fog of joyous madness and making his eyelids feel heavy instead. Today will be spent getting Harry’s life in order so she can step away from it for two full months without it utterly crumbling. He wants to be sure she has something to return to—some semblance of stability. Tomorrow afternoon he’ll bring her to the clinic in Leeds—and then at last he’ll get on a train back home. “But I’ll see you very soon, Sherlock,” And what then? God, he can hardly fucking wait to find out. “You should try to sleep.”

“Busy.”

“Experiment?”

“No.”

“Case?”

“No. Something else.”

“Tell me?”

“I’ll show you tomorrow. I’m hanging up now, John, because I know you never will, and you really ought to sleep,” And he does. Click. Just like that. 

John _really_ shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock refuses to abide by standard phone etiquette. And while he feels a bit bereft without _that voice_ in his ear, Sherlock is quite right. John had no intention of being the one to end the conversation—he’d have talked nonsense all night just to avoid saying goodbye.

Sighing, he drags himself from chair to uncomfortable bloody couch, layering Harry’s plaid blanket on top of his grandmother’s old quilt and settling in for a few hours of restless slumber. Not a minute has passed when his mobile vibrates on the cushion just beside his head.

  
  


> _Forty-four hours. Sleep well, John. SH_
> 
> _43, I think_
> 
> _Goodnight, you madman_

  
  
  


“This is humiliating,” Harry sits on her bed, glaring petulantly as John folds a pair of jeans and sets them neatly in her duffel. He rolls his eyes.

“You could do it yourself, then,” They’ve been through this twice already. She’s been trying to pack all bloody afternoon, stumbling around throwing clothing into a heap on the bed, all the while shouting about the injustice of it all.

“I’m in _pain.”_

“Yep,” Her sprained ankle is feeling worse today, supposedly, but John is fairly certain she’s just being tetchy out of anxiety about what lies ahead. She’s always been that way, and he’s quite used to it. It’s probably what’s allowed him to tolerate Sherlock’s moods for so long. He smiles at the thought. He’s been doing a lot of that today.

He picks up a black jumper, folds it and adds it to the stack. They’d spent the morning filling out paperwork and making tedious phone calls. John has contacted her landlady and paid the rent three months out—though Harry doesn’t bloody know it and he won’t be telling her until she figures it out. Her boss at the cafe she’s been working at part time has agreed to allow her to return once she’s back. John had sat across from her at the kitchen table and listened in on that conversation. Harry had been putting it off all week, but the bloke was understanding. He seemed to genuinely like her despite her (surely) lacking work ethic and was glad to hear she was seeking help.

Overall, it’s been a fairly productive day—they’ve succeeded at ensuring her life will stay intact, and for that, John is grateful. But he hasn’t heard from Sherlock once.

  
  


> _Morning, sunshine_
> 
> _I bloody hate manchester, harry is driving me mad_
> 
> _She reminds me of you, sometimes_
> 
> _Or maybe it’s the other way ‘round_
> 
> _Have you got a case on?_
> 
> _You must. Text me later if you’re free_

  
  


He knows Sherlock. Obviously. He knows how he is when there’s a puzzle to solve. And it’s fine. All of it. But it still stings, a bit, to watch his own texts pile up, unread and unreturned. He wants to bask in this new sense of possibility hovering around them with the only person in the world who understands exactly what he’s feeling—what he’s nearly overflowing with, to be perfectly honest. Sentiment. Again, John smiles.

“What’s he up to, then?” Harry is watching him, a bit fondly and more than a bit exasperatedly, from her perch on the bed.

“Haven’t heard back.”

“What, all day? Has he got a case on?”

“Must. Not sure,” He hasn’t told her of their—breakthrough—last night. He isn’t sure why. She’d be thrilled to hear it. But he feels as though he wants to guard this information like something impossibly precious, to hold it safely in his chest until they can explore it, define it, see what _more_ means for them.

“Suppose you’ll be happy to get back home tomorrow. Surely this is getting to be a bit much,” She smiles a self-deprecating smile. It is a bit much. His shoulder is furious with him for sleeping on an inexcusably stiff sofa for four nights in a row, Harry’s flat is constantly freezing and they’ve hardly left it, he’s tired of eating subpar takeaway and Pot Noodle, tired of bickering with his sister, and he misses his enigmatic bastard of a best friend. But—but. That isn’t what she needs to hear right now. And it isn’t the whole of it, anyway. It’s complicated. Always is, with them.

“This has been good, actually, Harry. You know—all things considered. Think it’s about the best we’ve managed in a long while,” And that is certainly true. John can hardly stand to be around her when she’s pissed, and for as long as he can remember, now, she has been. But she’d cut herself off several days before all this began. She’d stopped drinking, seemingly on a whim, and had gotten through the worst of it before he’d arrived. And despite an injured ankle and the tail end of an inconvenient concussion, he’s felt, these last few days, that he’s beginning to get his sister back.

“Yeah,” She lies back, staring up at the ceiling, dragging a pillow across the bed and hugging it to her chest. “I fucking appreciate this, you know. Haven’t got a bloody clue what’d I’d have done without you,” John nods once, not meeting her eye. He doesn’t know how to accept such a statement. He’s only doing what any sibling would’ve done. “I’m just tired of it, John. Bored. Miserable. I’ve said it before, I know. Maybe this time it’ll keep.”

“It will if you want it to,” He meets her eye now, and she stares back unflinchingly. “You have to want it to,” He’s oversimplifying. They both know it. Alcoholism is a disease, a dependence, not simply a choice. But choice is part of it. Most of it, maybe. For their entire lives, they’d watched their bored, miserable father refuse to choose sobriety over and over again. Harry says nothing, only closes her eyes and hugs the pillow closer to her chest.

  
  
  


> _John! My apologies. I got carried away. SH_
> 
> _Not a case, something else. SH_
> 
> _You said that last night_
> 
> _What’re you up to?_
> 
> _A surprise, of sorts. SH_
> 
> _Nothing grandiose, so you can go ahead and lower your eyebrows. And your expectations as well. SH_
> 
> _Bastard_
> 
> _You’re not going to tell me?_
> 
> _I’ll show you tomorrow, John. SH_


End file.
